


To Be Seen

by Iron



Series: Cliffjumper Week 2020 [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Cliffjumper needs more friends, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Mistaken Identity, whomp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28746519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Bumblebee is needed on Cybertron. No one can know he's left the planet.Cliffjumper steps in to fill his space. He didn't realize just how big a space that would be.
Relationships: Cliffjumper & Dinobots
Series: Cliffjumper Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104347
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	To Be Seen

**Author's Note:**

> Unfinished, will be fleshed out at a later point. An interesting concept I wanted to play with.

Cliffjumper’s nose twitches as Sunstreaker passes the airbrush over his helm. “Are you sure we got to do things like this?” 

Prowl sighs. “The plan requires that there be multiple copies of high ranking officers on the field at once.” 

“That doesn’t explain why I have to be _Bumblebee_!” He snarls, only for Sunstreaker to smack him up the side of his helm and yell at him for moving. “He’s a fragging scout -“ 

“He’s a trusted member of Spec Ops and valued by the rest of the troops, something well known enough to the Decepticons that they’ve begun to target him.” Prowl shifts his weight, pulling out a data pad to read. “Consider yourself lucky: you get to look like someone people actually enjoy being around for the day.” 

Cliffjumper settles back on his peds, back stiff. “Right. And I have to wear this slag for a week?” 

“Until Bumblebee is back from Cybertron.” 

Cliffjumper doesn’t ask why no one would notice he’s missing; he’s never been exactly high profile. The last coat of gloss goes on his plating, and he counts down in his head until it’s cured. He twists, examining each piece of his frame. Huh. Very… yellow. It looks weird. He already misses his red. “So. I’m Bee now.” 

“For the next few days.” 

“Shouldn’t be hard. Not like everyone didn’t think I was him before.” 

— 

He heads out to get fuel first. This stupid slagging plan means that they want people seeing him, seeing _Bumblebee_ , out and about on the base. The Decepticons can’t be allowed to believe that Bee isn’t on Earth. 

The refuel station’s just as full as it ever is. Cliffjumper’s never understood mech’s propensity to gather around where you grab fuel, sticking close to the source despite not being allowed double rations. For him, the temptation of being close to fuel and unable to top up his tank means that staying in the room is fragging stressful. Usually, if he’s there it’s only to hang out with whoever’s invited him to fuel with them, though even then he’s mostly a tagalong. 

“Hey Bee!” Cliffjumper almost jumps as a hand drops to his shoulder, and he jerks his helm up to look at Hound. _Oh._ One of Jazz’s mechs. Spec Ops. Probably in on it, knowing he could smell the difference between him and Bee. “You gonna grab a cube and fuel with us?” 

Cliff just barely stops himself from jerking out from under Hound’s hand. Him and Bee are supposed to be friends so - despite the fact that fragging Spec Ops are all way too close to the cons for the body counts they have - he has to at least act friendly towards him. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go grab a cube.” 

He keys in Bee’s ID to the system, and the dispenser drops the cube into his hand. It’s … smaller than he’s used to. Frag. Right. His systems require more energy than Bee’s do, to compensate for his heavier armor and more powerful engine, and they hadn’t changed the systems over to his own fueling requirements. Of course not. It might break the illusion. 

He follows Hound back to the table, tilting the cube back and forth in his hand. He’s guided to one of the biggest tables in the cafeteria, already jammed full of smiling mechs. They greet him cheerfully, and someone tugs him down to sit next to them. He doesn’t even receive this kind of welcome with the other minis, and they stick together out of self preservation. Frag, he doesn’t see this sort of welcome with the other _frontlines_ , and they trust each other on the field with their lives. 

The invitations to talk - about human cinema, great places to drive, the latest episode of _How the Kitchen Sinks_ , - are just as weird as the friendliness. It’s like no one at the table recognizes him, and it’s like no one’s stopped to think that Bee is Spec Ops. _Are they always this friendly, or is it for the con?_

Is this how Bee is treated all the time? A mech a half step from a Decepticon himself? A fragging _spook_? 

Apparently. Because here they are, slapping him on the back and rubbing the top of his helm, leaning into his space. When his cube runs empty, but he keeps passing it from hand to hand, hoping that the last few drops will pool together and allow him to eke out another sip or two, someone passes him a little packet of rust sticks wrapped in foil. 

Cliffjumper hasn’t seen rust sticks in vorns. “Where’d you get these?” 

Bluestreak shoots him a weird look. “Mirage has been making these since we woke up. You feeling okay?” 

“I… yeah. I’m fine.” He sticks the tip of one in his mouth, sucking on it until the sweet rust crumples and dissolves in his mouth. “Just got back from the docs, you know I hit my head in the last raid. Guess things are just tumbling around in there still.” 

Bluestreak grins, hopping in his chair a little. “That’s fine! We’re happy to help you remember.” 

“Sure, mech. I’m not back on active duty for a few weeks, so it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.” 

There’s a half-second flinch, before Bluestreak’s smile is back full-force. “I’ve got the morning off. I bet if we finish fueling now, we can claim the console in the rec room.” 

Cliffjumper shoves another rust stick in his mouth, tank gnawing at him. “Sure.” 

Bluestreak slams back the last dregs of his fuel, and Cliffjumper follows him from the table. 

The rec room’s another place he rarely spends time in; it’s a room for spending time with other people, and he’s never been a social mech in that way. Wrestling, sure. Tossing back cubes of Sideswipe’s contraband high grade at a post-fight party, of course. Sometimes the Dinobots haul him in for group grooming and sunning sessions, when the mood strikes them, or a game of basketball with the other front liners. Quiet conversations and little nothing moments aren’t something he’s good at. Sitting still and playing video games isn’t something he’s ever felt suited for, even if he ever had someone to play with it. 

Maybe he should make the Dinobots play with him. Wheeljack might just whip up a system for them, if he got Slag to ask… 

It’s mostly fun, once he’s figured out the controls. Bluestreak is unusually patient about walking him through them, even when Cliffjumper loses against the damn block boss in _Castlevania_ for the fifth time and almost throws the controller in frustration. Bluestreak just pats his shoulder and tells him that Ratchet had commed him earlier about “lingering effects of his helm trauma”. 

Emptiness gapes in his tank. Of course Ratchet would need to find an excuse for his behavior. 

“Yeah. Like I said. Everything’s a little turned around in my helm right now.” His thumb presses down on the B button until the plastic starts to creak, and he drops it into his lap. “Think I’m gonna head to my room. Helm ache.” He’s put in his required hours. He’ll pop out for lunch, and that should be enough for Soundwave’s spies to be convinced of who he is. 

He has to sleep in Bumblebee’s room. At least the mech cleaned it up a bit. _How does one mech collect so much junk?_

— 

Two weeks. He only has to make it two weeks in yellow drag for this mission to be over. 

Every hour feels like he’s piercing his tires with rusty nails. 

Bumblebee has so many fragging friends. So many people who want to spend time with him, who want to touch him, talk to him, play games with him, give him things. He feels like he’s drowning in the other mini’s life. How can someone who’s so like him in so many ways lead such a fragging different life? 

Cliffjumper is always exhausted by the end of the day. He collapses in Bumblebee’s berth, curling up on himself, and tries not to think about the ways in which he can’t bend himself into the right shape to fit the space Bumblebee is meant to fill on the ship. 

All the places he didn’t even know he wasn’t welcome before. 

He’s technically supposed to be patrolling the base - it’s the sort of duties they give mechs still not recovered enough to be on full duty, but too recovered to justify keeping on berth rest - but he’s just walking in circles when one of the Dinobots approaches him. 

He looks up from Slag’s big peds to his blunt head, and his shoulders drop. Of course the mech would be one of Bumblebee’s friends. Who on the ship wasn’t friends with the little yellow menace? 

A hand closes around his skull, squeezing gently. “Cliff not visit us.” 

He goes stiff, and blue optics meet blue. He smiles hesitantly. Frag, it shouldn’t feel so good for this mech to have seen him, to call him by his damn name. “Cliff’s in quarantine right now. But I heard he’ll be back in a week. Keep a spot clear in the pile for him?” 

He can see the gears working in the mech’s helm, pieces falling into place. “… Mm. Tell Prime Dinobots don’t like their friends going missing. Me tell him Prime too. Us Dinobots want him Cliffjumper back soon.” 

“You’ll have him. Promise.”


End file.
